


The Third Floor

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Drug Addiction, Falling In Love, M/M, Military, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Recovery, Secret Agenda, variable timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Dorian Pavus has returned from the war under dubious circumstances. In the process of putting his life back together, he meets someone who might just change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

~~~

 

On the twenty-third of Wintersend, Dorian steps out into a blustery Ferelden day, looking as near to perfect as he ever does. His clothes are pressed and his hair is neat, but not over-styled. He knows all the tasks ahead of him. The only thing he doesn’t know — what he could _never_ have predicted — is that the world is about to change.

 

“Oh, excuse me,” says someone.

Dorian looks up, eyes smiling, and laughs. “No problem. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Neither was I,” says the someone. “I guess it’s that kind of day.”

They shrug at each other — Dorian can’t tell which of them is the reflection — and they start to walk…

 

[Step for step, rhythmic.]

 

“You’re going my way?” asks Dorian.

“Or you’re going _mine_ …”

           

[Laughter, then silence.]

 

“I’m Anders.”

“Dorian.”

 

            [Cobblestones underfoot. Rustling leaves left over from autumn.]

 

“What do you do?” asks Dorian, trying to remember how to be polite.

“Nothing, really,” says Anders, then he laughs; Dorian does too. “At least that’s what my editor says…”

“Ah, a writer…” says Dorian.

Anders raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look up. It’s like he’s scoffing at the sidewalk. “Everyone’s a critic…”

“Oh no, _I’m_ certainly not,” says Dorian. “Well… I _am_ — of everything, basically — but I admire creativity. What are you trying to write?”

“Trying?” Now Anders _does_ look up. “I’m either writing or not writing — right now I’m not — but ‘trying’ doesn’t come into it.”

Dorian smiles. “That hasn’t been my experience of how life works. I’m always trying at something.”

“Then you’re much less lazy than I am.”

 

            [A sigh in tandem. Scuffing shoes.]

 

“I’m working on something of a passion project now,” says Anders, finally answering the question. “My editor has taken to calling it a manifesto…” He smiles, then, but it’s decidedly unfriendly. “...that isn’t exactly what I’m _trying_ for, though.”

Dorian laughs politely, although the joke is clearly at his expense. “What were you doing before?”

“Reporting, mostly,” says Anders.

“On what?”

“The war…”

“Oh.”

 

            [The screech of sirens. Sand in his eyes. Piiiiiiiiiinnnnnggg.]

 

“And what made you stop?” asks Dorian.

“Pervasive injustice.”

Dorian swallows, bites his lip.

“... _and_... it wasn’t terribly optional…” adds Anders.

“Nothing about war seems to be.” Dorian runs a hand through his hair and sighs again.

 

[Discharge papers. Two signatures. One stamp.]

 

“Well, this is me,” Dorian says at the corner. He doesn’t make a gesture toward the building with more than his eyes. It isn’t a place he wants people to know he frequents — even strangers — but when Anders cocks his head to the side and smiles broadly, Dorian already knows… this is where _he’s_ going too.

“Let me get that for you,” says Anders. He grabs the handle and they amble inside, past a loose top step and the smell of old wood. “Third floor?”

Dorian nods. “Third floor.”

 

~~~

 

           


	2. Chapter 2

~~~

 

The floor creaks beneath every step. Dorian doesn’t know whose footfalls are louder — his or Anders’ — but he is sure his own are slower. He dreads crossing the threshold into that tiny, suffocating room, _more_ with a stranger in tow…

“You coming?” prompts Anders. His hand is on the doorknob; he’s about to turn the old brass and they’ll be in — no turning back.

“Yeah, of course…”

On the inside, various milling husks mutter unintelligibly to each other. A woman with lank, straggly hair shrugs and sighs, her face taught, but angry. Dorian knows her type before he even sees her eyes — the red rims and desperation. He tries not to look.

“Do you want some coffee?” asks Anders.

Dorian shakes his head. “It’s not a strong enough drug for all this.” Then he laughs, but Anders doesn’t. “Oh. Sorry… shit.” Dorian drags his cuffed sleeve — perfectly imperfect — across his face.

Anders shrugs and turns away toward the door.

Among all the drawn faces and vacant expressions, Anders is an outlier. He has a smugness that Dorian recognizes from his own reflection, but dissimilarly, it seems like there’s something _behind_ it when it’s on Anders’ face — like war _hasn’t_ taken its toll… like addiction hasn’t ravaged him and left him a shell. Which begs the question: _what is he doing here_?

 

[A passion project. Manifesto.]

 

That’s when it occurs to Dorian what this is: something sinister… It’s _reporting_.

Dorian feels an urge to frown, but instead forces the edges of his mouth up in exaggerated glee. “I stick to herbal tea these days,” he says finally and Anders nods, still smiling, glib and calculating.

 

[A single bell. Chairs scrape the floor.]

 

“Here,” says Anders. He pulls a metal chair out for Dorian and sits in one adjacent — far enough that they won’t chance touching. It’s something Dorian’s familiar with — the stigma — but the only person who _judges_ is someone who can’t understand it… like this Anders character…

 

[Angry signs. Slurs and yells. Spit falling on the ground.]

 

“Welcome, everyone, thank you for coming.”

It’s a woman Dorian knows well. Her name is Cassandra. He doesn’t know much about her other than her record: she did two tours in the Free Marches before she ended up… _out_ … here…

“Who would like to begin today?” Her eyes scan the room, searching for someone eager. Dorian knows, though, she’ll settle for a _victim_. He slumps down and puts a hand over his eyes.

“Meredith? How about you?” Her gaze has landed heavily on that woman Dorian noticed earlier.

He rises in his chair, almost scoffing. Cassandra has a way of picking the weakest of the bunch. The woman is clearly struggling; she can barely keep her head up and her blonde hair falls in ragged curtains over her blood-red eyes.

“Hi,” she says shakily, “I’m Meredith and I’m an addict.”

 

[Hi Meredith.]

 

“I got a fix yesterday,” she says.

 

[ A collective gasp.]

 

“Shhh.” Cassandra makes to stand and raises her arms until Meredith nods in her direction.

“It’s okay,” says Meredith. “I deserve it.” Then she does something Dorian doesn’t expect. She starts walking directly toward him, across the circle. He squints, backing up without meaning to, wondering what’s about to happen, when she reaches out… for Anders. “I’m here today because of this person… this… wonderful person…”

Anders takes her hand, wrapping his delicate fingers around hers. Comparatively, they look like claws to Dorian — jagged and dirty, likely to cut. He finds himself on the edge of his seat, taut and stressed.

“Anders, can I tell our story?” asks Meredith.

 

[Our.]

 

 

Anders raises his head slowly, eyes shining — maybe wet — and Dorian watches with rapt fascination as he nods, as if it’s the easiest _and_ hardest thing he’s ever done.

“Thank you.” Meredith bows her head and turns back to the rest of the circle; she doesn’t let go of his hand, though. In fact, she grips it tighter. “When I met Anders, I was on the verge of something — on the edge of losing everything, actually — but I had no idea. I thought I was untouchable.” She laughs sadly. “That’s what the red always made me feel like…”

 

[Scattered laughter. Someone coughs.]

 

“So when Anders suggested — strongly — that I might not be able to continue like that and run my unit… well, suffice it to say that I was _not_ receptive to that advice.” She squeezes his hand and looks at him fondly. “He spent seven months with my battalion — entrenched. He ate, slept, pissed, and fucked like the rest of us… but when I washed out… when I had no one left… he was the _only_ one of those pissants who…” Her voice breaks suddenly. “...who showed up on the other side… when I had to take the uniform _off_.”

Anders looks at her gently. It doesn’t have a hint of the look he wore earlier on the street — that superior thing. This is something kind.

“...and he showed up again today… to get me here. So… I’m telling all of you now. I’ve been sober for one day. Thank you.”

 

[Congratulatory mumbling.]

 

When the others stand to speak, Dorian doesn’t hear them. He’s too concerned with the way Anders’ hand rests thoughtfully on his chin. It’s the one Meredith held; it seems like it should have been changed in that experience, like it might have contracted a grey-green hue, but it hasn’t. It looks like the rest of him: untouchable, austere, but undeniably _kind_. Dorian was wrong — utterly wrong.

 

[ _You’re sure of the maps?_ Gods damn it, I’m sure.]

 

The clock ticks annoyingly on the wall through the next three speakers, but that’s all right. Dorian just needs the minutes to pass. He’s on minute 1365 of 6240, say the courts. And if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that minutes pass — whether they’re spent happily or not. If there’s anything he learned in the military, it was that.

 

[The morning bell. A hundred belts and buckles and boots.]

 

“Thanks for coming today,” says Cassandra, when it’s over. She’s always very kind at the end no matter how many tears she’s incurred, no matter how many flashbacks she’s incited. She’s a damn sadist some days, but she _always_ says thanks — maybe they all do in their own ways.

Dorian grabs his jacket and smoothes his hair. He smiles at someone who looks at him, but the expression is hollow — he doesn’t remember how to _really_ smile anymore — and then Anders grabs him by the shoulder on his way out the door. It’s something utterly unexpected.

“You did great today.”

Dorian laughs, despite himself. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Sometimes that’s the harder choice,” says Anders.

 

[Gritting teeth. Lancinating pain. Silent tears.]

 

Dorian shrugs. “Not for me.”

“Well, nice to meet you, just the same,” says Anders. “See you again sometime?”

“Yeah,” says Dorian, but he doubts it. Anders isn’t one of them — one of the refuse… one of the ones who walked away, but never really left. He’s a _person_. Who are the rest?

 

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

~~~

 

Dorian’s _almost_ right. It takes several weeks to run into Anders again — an amount of time that sees Dorian graduated from his compulsory treatment with a 60-day chip and claps on the back, but nothing emotionally substantive to show for it. He still goes to the meetings, though; he isn’t sure why.

           

“It’s the little things that I miss the most,” a woman is saying. She goes by Calpernia; Dorian met her here, so he doesn’t know her last name, but she’s made quite an impression on him so far. Namely, she never talks about her service, only herself — her feelings — which seems like an impossibility to Dorian.

“The way she made coffee in the mornings… how she sang in the shower…”

In talking about herself, Calpernia often talks about her ex; Dorian imagines her as a fearsome person… a bit problematic, like all good characters, but beautiful and wild. Calpernia calls her B. Dorian likes to imagine what it’s short for…

 

[Barbara. Bertha. Brittany. Blair.]

 

It’s during this heartfelt monologue that Dorian finally sees Anders again. It has been long enough that he doesn’t remember his name, although the sweep of his hair as he rounds the corner does something to Dorian that he can’t quite place. It’s not something good; he knows that.

“I’m terribly sorry,” says Anders.

Dorian rolls his eyes, but everyone else smiles obligingly. If there’s one thing Dorian has learned about _the program_ it’s that everyone is accommodating to a fault. Considering they all got into these situations because they followed orders… because they bent under the weight of peer pressure… because they were led by an internal coercive voice… it seems like a bad habit to indulge.

 

[...you hear me soldier? You get down and clean this god-damn floor. I don’t care if you have to do it with your tongue—]

 

“So sorry,” mutters Anders again. He grabs a metal chair and unfolds it. Scanning the crowd for a place to put it down, he looks at Dorian. Recognition seems to dawn.

 

[Furtive glances. Secrets — beautiful secrets.]

 

“Calpernia?” says Cassandra, trying to get everyone back on track, “Go ahead…”

Calpernia nods. “Well, it’s not like she was the best person I ever met… or… even that she was special in any particular way… but she was special _to me_ — that’s the point. And that’s the exact thing that the drugs took away from me… the ability to distinguish what was special from what wasn’t.”

Everyone nods, including Anders, but Dorian doesn’t. He feels like something hit him — something hard.

 

[Keep your voice down. You’re _no one_.]

 

“Dorian?” says Cassandra suddenly. She turns almost all the way around in her chair to look at him, which can only mean one thing: she wants him to speak. He does it so rarely that every time feels like ripping out fresh stitches.

Nevertheless, he nods and stands up, leaning heavily on his knees as he does. It feels like gravity has increased since he first sat down.

“Hi, I’m Dorian and I’m an alcoholic.”

 

[Hi Dorian]

 

“It’s been 63 days since my last drink,” he says.

 

[Clap. Clap. Clap. Someone whistles.]

 

“...and I wish I could say that I’m sure it’s the _first_ 63 of the rest of the my life, but I can’t be sure of anything like that,” he continues. “I’m taking it one day at a time…” He laughs, then, looking at his hands where they’re gripping the podium — white knuckles and blue nail beds. He must be nervous, although he can’t feel it. The military trained that out of him too.

 

[Puddles of salt on pillowcases, the only evidence.]

 

“It’s funny because it really goes against my nature,” Dorian continues. “I’m a planner. I used to know my schedule down to the minute. It might have been the trait that led me to the military in the first place…”

 

[Appointment times. Blob of blue ink. Tear out the page; start again.]

 

“But here I am, trying something new… and I think that’s the power of something like this — something that seems like it will kill you. If you can adapt, it might not be fatal after all.” Dorian smiles and lets go of the podium. “Thanks.”

And although it’s unlikely, Dorian finds that he means it — _thanks_.

 

“Hey, nice to see you again,” says Anders, after it’s all over.

It takes Dorian a second to understand that he’s actually talking _to him_. In the time it takes, he defaults to a joke: “Oh really? Well, I _am_ nice to look at…”

Anders smiles. It’s utterly without artifice, which Dorian thinks is the strangest thing of all.

“So what are you doing here?” asks Dorian.

“I came to see someone, but she’s not here,” says Anders. He scans the crowd as he’s speaking, as if this _someone_ might materialize. “It hasn’t been a total loss, though, has it?” He smiles again. “I see you’ve got a new chip there…”

Dorian shrugs, holding the bronze coin between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah… I’m doing okay.”

“Are you?” asks Anders, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” says Dorian, snapping his hand closed around the coin. “What’s it to you?”

They glare at each other. It’s scrutiny in its least adulterated form.

 

[The locker door ripped open. Pictures thrown onto the floor.]

 

“Let’s get coffee,” says Anders suddenly.

Dorian shakes his head. “No thanks, weirdo.”

Anders laughs; it’s so infectious that Dorian feels himself smile, even though he doesn’t want to. “Listen, I liked what you said up there… sounds like a story I could stand to hear.”

“For some article?” goads Dorian.

Anders frowns. “Of course not. I’m here too, you know…”

Dorian squints. This is the first time he’s considered the idea that Anders is here as something other than the-supportive-friend-who-has-never-struggled-in-his-life.

“...but it’s nice of you to remember what I do,” adds Anders.

“All right, fine,” Dorian rolls his eyes. “Just around the corner and I’m _leaving_ if you get any creepier than you already are.”

“You got it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The place is nearly empty by the time they get inside. No one but an alcoholic — and maybe the odd medical student — thinks drinking coffee at 8pm is normal. Nevertheless, the barista smiles at them when they come in. The whole place smells like freshly ground beans and the promise of tomorrow’s muffins.

They find a table right near the window. Dorian selects it, actually, because of its proximity to the door.

“You’re thinking of this as an exit strategy?” asks Anders, laughing.

Dorian shrugs. In truth, he would have sat here anyway. He can’t sit with his back to a door _ever_ , not since…

 

[An explosion. South, south-east. _But the maps_!]

 

“I get it,” says Anders. He sips from the edge of his coffee and then pulls his top lip into his mouth. “God, that’s hot.”

“Yeah, did you need a disclaimer to tell you that?” Dorian snarks. “Better call your attorney; you could shut this whole place down…”

Anders smiles, still licking his lip. “Incidentally, I used to _be_ a lawyer.”

“Really?”

Anders nods. “Tailored suit, fancy car — the whole thing…”

“So what happened?”

“The war,” says Anders. “I knew someone who enlisted… someone who _died_ …actually...” He coughs, looking at the floor. “...and I got obsessed with understanding why…”

“So you became a journalist?”

“Not at first. I was going to draft a suit…”

“Ah, _there_ it is,” says Dorian. He hits the table for effect, but he doesn’t know why he’s working so hard to keep this light. War isn’t a joke; he knows that first hand.

 

[‘From now on you’re no one’s husband, no one’s child, no one’s friend. You’re a _soldier_.’]

 

Dorian sobers. “Who were you going to sue?”

Anders shrugs. “I hadn’t figured that out yet… the military? ...the government? It didn’t make any sense, but I felt like I didn’t have any power… so… I just started writing.”

“Well, of the things you could have tried, you picked a relatively innocuous one…” says Dorian.

 

[Empty bottle on the counter. Glass on the floor. ‘Just one more drop.’ _Please_.]

 

“At first,” says Anders.

They nod to each other. The coffee is still too hot to drink, but Dorian drinks it anyway. The silence stretches.

“Hey, did you hear what that woman was saying when I first came in?” asks Anders suddenly.

Dorian laughs. “ _Barely_. You interrupted her pretty spectacularly.”

“Oh god. I did, didn’t I?” He grimaces. “I’m the worst… but did you hear that thing she said? ...about the little things?”

“Yes.”

“I think all of life might be summed up in the little things,” says Anders. “When someone’s gone, what else is there to hold onto?”

Dorian nods. Now that he knows what Anders used to do, he thinks he understands him better. He’s the type of person to make sweeping generalizations about things — to argue unprovable points, just to be contrary. “ _Maybe…_ what struck me was what she said next… about not being able to tell what’s special?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She said it was the drugs that did that, but I think it’s _the life_ : the routine, the rules, the repetition.”

“The life?” asks Anders. “You mean in the service?”

Dorian nods.

“Can _you_ tell what’s special anymore?” asks Anders.

Dorian laughs. If this were any other situation — any other person — he would think the whole thing had just become a joke… someone’s idea of a prank. “Is this therapy?”

Anders smiles and shakes his head. “I’m just wondering what you related to…” Then he pauses, looking at his coffee thoughtfully. “ _I_ relate to that, too, incidentally.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The search for the truth is about as rote as the military — and just as all-consuming.”

 

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

~~~

 

“Hey, so tonight, who were you there to see?” asks Dorian. He knows it’s supposed to be ‘whom’ but that feels pretentious. He likes to think of himself as a person with a strong enough grip on grammar that he can break the rules when it suits him. Of course, that’s the mentality that likely got him into this situation in the first place.

 

[It’s noon _somewhere…_ ]

 

“It’s sort of a long story…” says Anders.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

Anders sighs. “Her name is Hawke — call sign, I mean. She was a sniper.”

 

[Fitzy. Starburst. Red. _Sparkles_.]

 

“And that’s how you knew her?” asks Dorian. “By call sign?”

Anders nods, but then falls silent. Dorian intuits its meaning.

“But… you knew her as something _else…_ later…?”

A sigh — Dorian doesn’t know whether it comes from Anders or himself… maybe it’s collective.

“Do you actually _want_ to hear this?” asks Anders.

Dorian nods before he has time to decide — a reflex — but he finds he actually _does_. Unlike most people he’s met in the military, he cares about _why_ people do what they do; he wants to see that squishy underbelly of emotional muck and understand its origins. It’s a trait that superior officers try to train out of you — _curiosity_ — but no one trained it out of Dorian before he _was_ the superior himself.

“Then we’d better get going; this is going to take a while.” Anders glances down at his watch. “It’s 9:30 already.”

“Yeah… okay…” Dorian stands from the table, suddenly realizing he’s agreed to go somewhere else with this _stranger_ he has seen — and vaguely detested — twice. He hesitates in mid stride.

 

[Move soldier! Bullets don’t recognize indecision.]

 

“Do you live within walking distance?” asks Anders.

“Yeah. I’m just around the corner.”

Dorian opens the door and Anders goes through it, slightly brushing past Anders’ chest in the process. The contact is brief, but Dorian feels the echo of it even as the door closes behind him.

“Well, I would normally go this way,” says Anders, pointing to the left.

Dorian’s place is just two blocks away, but the easier way to get there is by going right.

 

[Left. Left. Left, right, left.]

 

“Walk with me?” asks Anders. “Until we get to your place or mine — whichever comes first. Maybe I’ll be done with the story by then.”

“All right, let’s go,” says Dorian. He establishes the pace for their walk without meaning to. He doesn’t even know he’s done it until Anders’ shoes start scuffing the pavement out of step to catch up. Dorian has always been like that — passively influencing other people. It’s proven to be one of his most effective — but resented — qualities.

“So Hawke was in the company I joined after I abandoned my lawsuit,” Anders begins. “She and I got along really well right from the beginning. She’s kind of a hothead… so comparatively, I got to be _nice_ — whatever that means.”

Dorian laughs. “I don’t think you’re nice.”

The joke doesn’t land, though. Anders stops talking abruptly and mutters, “...you don’t actually know me.”

“Sorry,” says Dorian. “Humor is a reflex.”

Anders nods, walking the next ten steps in silence.

“So she and I got to be close,” he finally continues. “Turns out, she’d lost someone, too — a lot of _someones,_ actually: her dad, a brother…”

 

[A grid of tombstones — names unimportant — numbers and ranks.]

 

“So when I told her about Karl — about what happened to him — she felt like… a place I could be honest,” Anders concludes.

 _Karl_. “You’re…” Dorian interrupts himself. He doesn’t feel like he can say the word.

 

[Don’t ask. Don’t tell.]

  
            “Your _someone_ was named Karl?” Dorian amends.

Anders nods, without looking up. His eyes seem to be weaving a path along a crack in the darkened sidewalk in front of them. Dorian knows that look for what it is: _grief_.

“I’m very sorry,” says Dorian; he even finds he _means_ it.

“Yeah, well…” Anders clears his throat. Dorian thinks he might be crying, but he doesn’t dare look.

 

[Hidden tears and swallowed sobs]

 

“Anyway… Hawke was great… until addiction got the best of her — like so many others,” says Anders. “That’s why I was looking for her. I heard she moved to Ferelden a few months ago. We lost contact after—” He cuts himself off.

“After what?”

“After I broke up with her…”

For a moment, Dorian is confused. His mind hitches and he reforms the story until he imagines the subtext: some kind of retreat back into the closet, he imagines, with a similarly surprising re-coming-out. It happens in the military; it happens in _life_.

“It isn’t your fault, you know,” blurts Dorian. “You can’t help what you are.”

Anders stops short. Dorian gets two steps ahead, then turns. They stare at each other — confusion apparent, a standoff in progress, poised for _something_.

“It wasn’t _that_ ,” says Anders. “I’m bi.”

            [What people say before they _really_ come out.]

 

“I have wished a million times I could use full-fledged gayness as the reason with Hawke,” says Anders. He barks a laugh. “She wouldn’t have believed it, though. She knows life is more nuanced than that.”

Dorian squints. Being _definite_ does not strike him as opposing nuance. He feels offence taking hold in his gut, although he doesn’t want it to. He hates when his emotions get the better of him. It’s the one thing he _wanted_ the military life to train out of him; it never worked, though. Dorian is — at his core — a slave to the way he feels.

“So what are you doing here?” asks Dorian cooly, “trying to win her back?”

“No,” says Anders. “I just want to make sure she’s all right. She _wasn’t_ when we last spoke.”

“I see.” Dorian stops short in front of a brownstone, two blocks away from his home. “This is me,” he lies.

“Oh,” says Anders, smiling up at the building.

“Yeah, well; thanks,” says Dorian. “I’ll see you around.”

Anders turns to leave, but stops and retraces his steps. “Is… something wrong?”

Dorian clenches his jaw, trying to keep his expression neutral. He doesn’t know, really. There shouldn’t be _anything_ wrong; Anders is a stranger. What’s it to him if he has exes with a variety of genitalia?

 

[Invalidation by variety.]

 

“It feels like something just got kind of… unfriendly…” says Anders. He smiles, then, a kind-looking thing that makes Dorian want to run.

“It’s… it’s not that.” He searches the corners of the night sky for words — eyes darting from star to star. “I’m just tired… can we… get together another time?”

Anders’ smile widens. “Sure. I’ll give you my number.”

 

[Scraps of paper. Emotional hostage exchange.]

 

“See you later, Dorian,” says Anders.

“See you.”

Dorian waits until he is around the corner — out of sight — and turns down a side street toward his actual townhouse. The night feels cold suddenly, full of the sound of old brick buildings groaning in the wind. He keeps his head down, eyes trained on the ground, until he’s in front of his own door.

The brownstones in this neighborhood are old — dilapidated, his mother would say — but he loves this one. It’s the last thing he bought with his inheritance before he blew it all. It reminds him of who he used to be, before all this.

 

[ ~~Dorian Pavus, Ph.D~~. Capt. Dorian Pavus.]

 

Inside, he flicks on the lights as he struggles out of his boots. He throws his coat over the back of a chair and works on the buttons of his shirt, all before he notices a shadow outside his front window.

 

[Knock. Knock.]

 

Dorian freezes, his fingers still clasped around his shirt’s third button. Experience has taught him to be cautious, but time has tempered the surge of adrenaline he feels whenever he’s alone. He takes a breath and walks to the door.

 

[The bat — behind the couch.]

 

“Hi,” says Anders.

“What are you doing here?” asks Dorian. His grip on the door tightens automatically. He’s poised for a fight, although nothing in him wants to fight Anders.

“I uh… I knew you didn’t live on Third Ave,” admits Anders.

“How?”

“I’m staying two doors down; I’ve seen you before…” says Anders.

They stare at each other. Dorian feels his heart speed up — tension, anticipation, confusion, blended into one.

Then Anders laughs. “I’m sorry if I freaked out you… with the walking home and then the showing up here… and then… whatever happened a minute ago...”

Dorian smiles, despite himself.

“It’s all too much… but… I just… felt like…”

           

[Door left ajar. Lips. Teeth. Tongue.]

 

~~~


	5. Chapter 5

~~~

 

They only make it as far as the couch before pants are unzipped and shirts unbuttoned. The feel of Anders’ skin is intoxicating — soft and warm and dotted with freckles that Dorian would spend an hour tracing, if he had the time… _when_ he has the time. It has been _so_ long and he’s already greedy — already planning.

 

[The barracks at midnight. Scuffing shoes. Panting in the dark.]

 

Dorian gasps and writhes. Anders coos in his ear.

 

[Owl, quail, mourning dove.]

 

The feel of his cock in Dorian’s hand is magic — smooth and hard and _wet_. Dorian wants to lick it, but he can’t stand the idea of taking his mouth away from Anders’ lips.

 

[ _Yes_.]

 

“I’m gonna come,” whispers Dorian. It’s surprising, even as he says it. He isn’t like this normally. He doesn’t let himself lose control, even in the throws of it. He enjoys sex, but he plays to _win_. And yet, here he is, with Anders — feeling like he’s on the edge of everything.

“I want you to,” says Anders. He grinds his hips up against Dorian’s cock, where it’s trapped between their skin, grabs the back of his neck and kisses him. Even flat on his back, he’s _power_ inviolate.

Dorian gasps for air; his lungs won’t fill — they can’t.

“Come on, please…” whispers Anders. He bites Dorian’s lip and pulls. “Please.”

Dorian’s legs shake; the world blurs. Every nerve in his body ignites and freezes.

 

[Stillness. The eye of the storm.]

 

 

* * *

 

 

The morning light surprises Dorian. He hasn’t slept so well or so deeply in an age. His dreams are normally cannon fodder. Nevertheless, when he wakes up, he finds himself at home, in his own bed, with Anders on his side, facing away, breathing gently. And in that moment, he doesn’t feel the regret he anticipates; he feels _right_.

“Good morning,” he whispers, leaning into Anders’ ear, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Anders smiles without opening his eyes. He turns in the circle of Dorian’s arm until they’re face to face, but he doesn’t look; he reaches out with his lips — those lips that Dorian already misses.

 

[Kisses as communion.]

 

“How are you?” Dorian asks.

“Great,” says Anders. Then he opens his eyes, blinking, but concern apparent. “Are _you_? Okay?”

Dorian nods. He brushes his cheek against the elegant tip of Anders’ nose. “I’m uh…” he almost stops himself, but something urges him to keep speaking. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Anders smiles. “Me too.”

 

In the 32 years Dorian has been alive, he has had very few instances of _staying_. At home, with his parents, staying was an impossibility unless his guest wanted to scale the ivy outside his bedroom window at dawn — four stories up. At boarding school, the boys all lived together, but Dorian never met anyone worth breaking the rules.

 

[Prefect. Head boy.]

 

It wasn’t until his foray into higher education that Dorian actually spent the night in bed with another person — only then, it was his professor.

 

[Expulsion threatened. NDA signed.]

 

In fact, as he notices the movement of Anders’ body in the bed next to him — gentle stretching, testing the flexibility of his ankles — Dorian thinks this might be the first time he’s been _happy_ not to wake up alone.

“Do you want some coffee?” asks Dorian.

“Not yet,” says Anders. “Come here.” He shifts and extends his arm so Dorian can rest his head in the crook.

Dorian smiles, feeling delightfully powerful in choosing to comply. Time stretches; birds sing outside. It’s nearly spring now, and although the temperature is still quite cool and the air is crisp in the mornings, the birds know it; their songs have changed. Dorian thinks — despite himself — that maybe _his_ song has, too.

“So are you actually an alcoholic?” asks Anders, suddenly. There’s a gentle laugh in his voice. It’s similar to something Dorian noticed before — something he first interpreted as smugness. Today, he loves it.

“Kind of,” says Dorian. “I’m _something_.” He picks up his head and props it on his hand. “If it wasn’t alcohol, it would be something else.” In fact, even as he answers, an intrusive thought occurs to him: sometimes it’s _people_ … ones who end up in his bed…this could be the beginning—

 

[Stop.]

 

Anders nods. “I get it.” He trails his hand down Dorian’s side and lingers to knead the skin over his hip.

Dorian is reciprocally curious, even though he feels sick, inexplicably, so he asks, “What are _you_?”

“I’m mutable.”

Dorian snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure; just don’t try to pin me down, I guess?”

They both laugh, but Anders’ face darkens. “I’ve heard people say that they never knew they were an addict until they found the right thing,” he says. “And then it just takes _one_ taste… the red… you know?”

Dorian _doesn’t_ know; he’s never tried it. He does know that _other_ feeling though — his _red_ maybe… the pull of drama, the sickening appeal of jealousy. He doesn’t know how to explain any of that, though, so he shrugs.

“Well, it’s something I’ve thought about a lot,” says Anders. “After Karl died… I just thought I’d go looking until I found something to swallow me whole. I felt subsumed in grief; how could anything be worse?”

Dorian blinks down at Anders, who is looking out the window now, eyes unfocused… and in that moment he thinks he _knows…_

 

[It just takes _one_ taste.]

 

“Okay, I think I’m ready for coffee?” says Anders, suddenly smiling again. “...if you are.”

“Sure,” says Dorian.

“If you just point me in the direction of the coffee grounds… and coffee pot… and water… _kitchen_ , in general, maybe?” laughs Anders.

“How about I make _you_ some coffee?” offers Dorian.

“I was _hoping_ you’d offer… did my attempt at ‘inept’ give it away?” asks Anders.

And although it feels forward — although they’re strangers — Dorian kisses him, by way of answer and manages to laugh, like this is all _normal_. “Come on, let’s go, you idiot.”

 

[Aren’t we all searching for _normal_?]

 

“You’re cheeky this morning,” says Anders.

“It’s not just _this_ morning,” says Dorian. “I think I’m always like this.” It’s a lie, though. He’s _never_ like this. He’s becoming someone else already.

 

[Air raid horns. An early warning sign.]

 

“Oh, good.” Anders reaches up to touch the edge of Dorian’s jaw. “I like this side of you. It’s much nicer than that guy who walked me home — to _someone else’s_ house — last night.”

Dorian knows he could take offence to this jab. He _almost_ does. “Thank you,” he says, instead. “I am not sure who that guy was.” ...but he _does_ ; he’s the guy who chose a military life over an academic one.

 

[Troop formations. A wall of maps. Barking orders.]

 

It’s only when Dorian gets a few feet away from Anders — when Anders closes the bathroom door and Dorian is left alone in the kitchen with coffee grounds and a variety of mug-sizes — that he admits to himself: _something is wrong here_. He just doesn’t know exactly what.

He runs through his coffee routine in relative haste — so much so that it’s almost done when Anders emerges.

“It smells like a coffee shop in here — in all the best ways,” says Anders. He’s managed to dress, at least in a perfunctory manner.

 

[Sneaking out before the first bell.]

 

“Thanks. I try,” says Dorian, trying to sound light. He passes a cup of coffee to Anders across the island counter and smiles. “So… you’ll be leaving soon?”

“Relatively. I have a deadline,” says Anders, looking at his watch. Then he smiles, takes a breath, and looks back at Dorian. “Can I call you?”

“Call me?”

Anders laughs. “...for something like… this… again?”

Dorian feels his pulse in his neck. It’s what he wants — craves, suddenly — but it’s not _good_ ; it’s the frenzying rush of adrenaline.

 

[Dawn strikes. Drones overhead. Bombs diffused.]

 

...but all he says is, “ _Sounds great._ ”

 

~~~


	6. Chapter 6

~~~

 

Despite his assertions to the contrary, Dorian doesn’t hear from Anders in what he would consider ‘timely’. In fact, a whole week later, Dorian thinks about walking up and down the street until he figures out which townhouse Anders lives in. He doesn’t do it, but he _thinks_ about it. In fact, he’s thinking about it a lot more than he knows he should be; he’s thinking about it like it’s a bottle of perfectly aged Bordeaux.

It’s _that_ realization that leads him to a meeting.

 

[I’m Dorian. I’m an alcoholic.]

 

This isn’t his usual meeting. He chose a different one on purpose; he doesn’t want to be around other soldiers — just _normal_ alcoholics, whatever that means.

“Thanks for having me,” he begins. Because of the anonymity, he finds he doesn’t have to grip the podium for dear life; he doesn’t feel his knees knocking together.

“It’s been…” he pauses, not remembering the date of his last drink. It doesn’t really seem important now. He refocuses. “It’s been a week since I met someone who challenges my sobriety.”

The group hums collective agreement.

“He didn’t offer me a drink,” continues Dorian. “He’s not an alcoholic or an addict…”

 

[I don’t _think_.]

 

“He’s just… he might _be_ a drug… to me.” Dorian swallows around something in his throat. “I haven’t felt like this in so long… I’m not sure how to act.”

Dorian imagines Cassandra at his usual meeting. She knows him well enough now that she might ask him what that means — if he’s ever been in a situation like this before.

 

[Once.]

 

“The last time I felt like this about anyone, it was under the worst kind of circumstances… in the middle of the war, actually.” Dorian coughs, surprised at his own candor. “...he was called Renee…”

Dorian is about to keep talking — about to say something aloud that he hasn’t even dared to let himself think — when he hears the door open at the back of the room, notices a flop of red-gold hair and the flash of meaningful recognition. _Anders._

Dorian straightens, suddenly feeling sick. Tension sings in his body and he curls the fingernails of one hand into the palm.

 

[The terror of exposure.]

 

“...anyway, I didn’t have a drink; that’s the point.”

He nods to the group and sits in the closest unoccupied chair, deliberately not looking at Anders, but feeling his proximity.

And although he’s raw now — imagining his way out of the room and down the street — in his mind’s eye he only sees the past.

 

[You can’t send the Third down there! _Renee is with them_.]

 

* * *

  

“Dorian?” calls Anders.

Dorian speeds up — twice the steps he’d normally take, clipped and angry.

“Dorian!” Anders runs in oblique orbit and stops right in front of him. “Dorian, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” snaps Dorian. He’s furious, but he’s had the fight trained out of him. It’s funny how that happens — in war, anger is inversely proportional to expected violence.

 

[The process of breaking of a person.]

 

“For…” Anders stutters, forming a string of non-words and looking at the sidewalk.

“...for not calling me back? Don’t worry about it; it’s forgotten.” Dorian sidesteps Anders and begins to walk again — slower, but more deliberately than before.

“No,” argues Anders, running to catch him again. Then more softly, “ _No…_ for hearing that.”

Dorian hears his pulse between his ears, feels the thickness of embarrassment in his throat, but only shrugs. “Why?”

Anders looks at him pityingly, but doesn’t say anything. He bites his bottom lip in obvious contrition.

...and Dorian _hates_ it, so he scoffs. “Did you think I was talking about _you_?”

 

[Manic laughter. An overcorrection.]

 

“How terribly vain of you…” Dorian says.

Anders’ cheeks turn pink.

“See you around, I guess,” says Dorian. “Try not to stalk me to any other meetings — or _my house_ , for that matter — all right?” He smiles, then, which feels horrible, but he likes it better than his other instinct, which is to cower, to hide.

 

[...to admit he feels _rejected_.]

 

Dorian tips his head, catching a glint of light over the edge of his glasses. It temporarily blinds him, sending him back in time.

 

            [Sunset in the desert.]

 

“Dorian, about Renee...” says Anders.

 

[Hush of a whisper. Intensity of a scream.]

 

“Don’t say that name,” snaps Dorian, suddenly walking again.

Anders follows and Dorian starts to jog, not knowing exactly why. He isn’t afraid of Anders. In fact, it feels more like he’s running away from _himself_ — from the memories, from a ghost.

“Dorian, stop!” calls Anders. He turns out to be fast, or at least more determined. He steps into Dorian’s path for the _third_ time today. “I’m not trying to bully you. I just… feel like…”

“Like _what_?” yells Dorian. His voice sounds foreign, even in his own ear. “You don’t know me. Stop acting like you do! Stop talking about things that have _nothing_ to do with you!”

Anders shrinks — spine curling in on itself.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t need you!”

 

[I don’t need _anyone_.]

 

“Stay the _hell_ away from me!” Dorian’s chest heaves as he spits the words. He feels terribly close to tears, even though none of it makes sense.

 

[Exposure. Disappointment. Fear.]

 

“Dorian, I’m sorry,” says Anders again.

The repetition is suddenly infuriating and Dorian barks a cold laugh. “ _For what?!_ ”

“...for Renee.”

 

~~~


	7. Chapter 7

~~~

 

            [Renee in the moonlight.

It’s dark without the stars — cold when the sun goes down.

 _Hold me until morning_.

Deployment. Troop Formations. Weather patterns.

... _they all can wait_ …]

 

“What do you know about him?” asks Dorian. His voice is quiet as he asks. In the time since he last saw Renee — last heard his voice or felt his skin — he can barely stand to say his name. In the running novel of his life, Dorian sees Renee Trevelyan’s pronouns with capital H’s and extra-bold type.

“I was there,” says Anders. “...at the end.”

Dorian’s mouth falls open.

 

[Cold water on the back of his neck.]

 

“Who _are_ you?” Dorian gasps. “Is this… did _they_ send you? Is that why—” He cuts himself off, putting his hand over his mouth and closing his eyes. His knees threaten and he stumbles back across the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding passing pedestrians and a divot in the concrete.

Anders is shaking his head — saying something — but Dorian can’t hear it.

 

[The explosions are too loud.]

 

“Can we please go somewhere?” asks Anders. He puts his hand out to stabilize Dorian, but Dorian shakes him off. “...just to talk?”

Dorian wants to say no. He shakes his head, but then…

“Please, Dorian,” continues Anders. “My place is just around the corner. I need to show you something.”

 

[Left. Right. Left. Left. Left. Left. ____ Right.]

 

The street seems to pitch — an ocean in the middle of the city. Dorian’s head swims with silent screams and unspoken apologies.

           

[Keys. Lock. Door. Hallway.]

 

“Just sit here,” says Anders. “I’ll be right back.”

The apartment doesn’t look like he lives here — it doesn’t really look like anyone does. _A rental_ , to be sure. It’s something Dorian’s mother would have rolled her eyes about. He remembers the way she used to complain about the heat in summer and the cold in winter… about a neighbor’s noisy cat… about over-decorated spaces and under-prepared food. He hasn’t seen her in so long — he almost misses it.

 

[Regression.]

 

Anders returns with a box — weathered and beaten around the edges. “It’s… it’s in here.”

“ _What_ is?”

“The story… I was writing… an account…” He pushes a hand through his hair and swallows, sitting on the couch next to Dorian. “It’s better if I just show you.”

Dorian doesn’t dare touch the box. He doesn’t know what’s inside, but he can tell it’s something emotionally dangerous — existentially untenable.

“Here…” says Anders. He pushes a folded piece of paper into Dorian’s hand and raises an eyebrow. “Read it.”

 

[Dorian,

I know this isn’t what you expected…

...I’m okay here…

It’s lonely in the evenings.

But still

...you’re always on my mind.

Sleep tight, Dear One…

 

I wish you’d write more…

...you’re busy, I know.

I’m saving your space...

 

The captain is nervous…

...tomorrow’s rotation…

I can’t tell what’s going to happen.

...we’re all a little jumpy.

...at least I have you.]

 

Dorian gasps. It’s the closest he’s been to sobbing in an age… _a drink_ … what he would _give_ for a drink…

“It’s all here…” says Anders. “...everything he wrote to you that didn’t… that didn’t make it…”

“Make it?” repeats Dorian. It’s barely a whisper, barely a thought.

“That night… the night of the air raid…”

“Don’t say it!” shouts Dorian, suddenly rising from the couch, suddenly afraid he’s going to throw up _and_ lose consciousness, suddenly………………

 

[ _not. here._ ]

 

“I was with him at the end, Dorian… but not only that,” explains Anders. Contrition settles into his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, even as he chases Dorian across the room. “I knew him. We were friends.”

“...and you… _what_ … came here to stalk me after he—”

 

[...died?]

 

Dorian grits his teeth, swallowing the words, swallowing the memories, swallowing the truth that he can’t bear to name.

“He asked me to give you these…” says Anders. “...at the end.”

“The end?”

“...I was with him… in the medical tent… that’s where they dragged him after the first raid…” explains Anders. “...and we were friends; I’d been with his unit for months… I knew… I knew all about you…”

“So _what_?!” shouts Dorian. “You came here looking for me…” he sidesteps Anders, beginning to pace. “...but instead of giving me this — this fucking box of horrors — you decided to _what_ … to fuck me first?”

Anders looks down at the ground, shame apparent, and then breathes.

“...well?! Don’t have an answer for me _this_ time?” goads Dorian.

“...I didn’t plan that,” says Anders. “I just… I didn’t know you’d be like this — from everything he told me, I knew you’d be great… I just didn’t know you’d be…”

“Great?” Dorian continues shouting, his fingers deep in his hair, pulling at the root. “I’m a fucking alcoholic, Anders… _great_ doesn’t even enter into it!”

“You’ve been sober for 74 days,” says Anders.

 

[He’s counting?]

 

“...and after what you’ve been through… it’s more than I could have done…” he says.

Dorian turns then, ready to yell, but the look on Anders’ face is arresting — it’s _kind…_ just like that first day at the meeting…

“...it was a horrible thing to do,” continues Anders.

“It was confusing,” snaps Dorian. He doesn’t know why it’s important to _correct_ Anders in this situation — why correcting anyone is _ever_ important — but it feels like it is. It feels like a tiny piece of control in the midst of all this.

 

[No one controls war.]

 

“Yes… I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches between them, forming a rift along the carpet Dorian can almost see. The two feet between them might as well be the entire desert.

 

[Scorching hot. Bitter cold.]

 

“...I regret it,” says Anders finally.

Dorian nods, but he isn’t sure what the gesture means.

“Take the box,” Anders says. “It’s all for you.”

 

~~~


	8. Chapter 8

~~~

 

It takes a whole day to work up the courage to open the lid. In the interim, the box sits on Dorian’s island counter, taunting him.

Renee was the type of person who wrote everything down. In the time Dorian knew him, he had three journals, sequenced by volume, and, unlike the ones Dorian has historically kept for himself, Renee’s were _full_. It makes _sense_ that this would be his legacy.

Still, that doesn’t make opening it any easier. In fact, it might be _more_ difficult; Renee was a practiced historian.

Dorian huffs to himself — _he_ used to think he was something of a historian, too, but at some point history and fiction intermingled in his head… everything he thought he knew…

 

[Erased.]

 

The result of his de-acclimation was a pervasive sense of displacement. He looked for a tie to the world he knew — the world with Renee in it.

In the week after Dorian came home — medically discharged — he got in touch with Renee’s parents.

 

[Hello, I’m Dorian…

...I knew your son…]

 

His attempts were not well received. It was one such failure that led him to a bar in an old part of an anonymous town. The wine list was terrible, but it didn’t much matter after the second full bottle.

The memories dulled then — just flashes of tangled hair and big green eyes.

 

[Soft filter.]

 

He can’t remember the weeks after that… the weeks before he landed in a veteran’s hospital…

 

[IV. Heart Monitor. Stomach pump.]

 

He only remembers the first time he saw Cassandra and the way she looked at him — equal parts pity and disgust. It’s how he sees himself now, actually… faced with the impossibility of opening a simple box.

Instead, he goes to the cabinet below the bathroom sink — the one he doesn’t let himself think about — and pulls out the bottle.

“Well, this is it,” he says to the faces in his mind: Renee, Cassandra… _Anders_... “The moment I decide who I am…”

He moves to the kitchen, finds a wine key in the bottom of a junk drawer, and uncorks the bottle.

 

[Pop. Glug-glug-glug. Splash.]

 

Dorian isn’t careful when he sets the bottle to the side. It makes a loud sound against the quartz countertop and he flinches, but he doesn’t stop. This is it — rock bottom.

 

[ _Or is it_?]

 

In his periphery, he can still see the box. Its corners are broken and its lid badly damaged, but it’s here: the last piece of Renee… and Renee wouldn’t want this for him… Renee was goodness personified… bold and brave and full of life and—

 

[Gone. Because of _him_.]

 

Dorian moves to pick up the glass — fueled by fury — but stops a fractional inch away.

“No,” he whispers and crosses the room in two steps.

 

[Messy handwriting. Sandblown letters.]

 

Dorian spends the next three hours looking through each ruined document and scrap of paper. He doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until he notices he’s straining to see each page.

 

[The sun sets earlier here.]

 

He’s about the put the box away, when he comes across a thick stack of bound papers against the bottom. They’re a departure from everything else, so they give him pause.

 

[The secrets we carry: an examination of love and intimacy at the front… by—]

 

The byline is illegible, but Dorian doesn’t need to see it. _Anders._

 

 

The walk back to Anders’ house seems to take twice the time it took yesterday. Dorian checks the street signs at each intersection, thinking he must have passed it, but the public alleys count up, so he knows he hasn’t.

When he finally sees the yellow door with the azaleas on the front stoop, he knows: he’s made it. Only now, he doesn’t know how to begin.

He pauses — halfway to knocking, indecision manifesting as catatonia — until he remembers… _regret…_ and all of a sudden he knows just what to say.

 

[Knock. Knock.]

 

“Anders?” croaks Dorian. He’s leaning on the door jam for support while Anders looks at him, clearly confused, but even in the midst of this Dorian feels sure. “ _I don’t regret it_.”

“Regret what?” asks Anders.

Dorian rolls his eyes, irritation belied in every gesture. He’s too keyed up to explain it, so he changes tack. “I read what you wrote.”

Anders’ eyes widen. “The whole thing?”

“A lot of it.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Anders.

“Don’t be. You asked him all the right things.” Dorian pushes his fists into his hips, overcompensating for the trepidation he feels. “Anders… I thought it was my _fault_.”

 

[Incorrect marching orders.]

 

Anders pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, a look of disbelief, but no words.

“I _believed_ that… this whole time…” reiterates Dorian.

“Maker…”

           

[Relativity.]

 

“So no. I don’t regret… meeting you…” Dorians manages. “I don’t know why it got so far—”

Anders tries to interrupt, “—neither do I…”

Dorian shakes his head. “...but… I _don’t_ regret it.”

 

[A collective sigh.]

 

“Do you want to come in?”

Dorian nods and steps across the threshold. For the first time since he met Anders, he doesn’t even hesitate.

 

[Squeal of hinges. Thunk of lock.]

 

~~~


	9. Chapter 9

~~~

 

“I can’t believe you were there… keeping a record of all this,” says Dorian. The tea in his hands has gone cold, but he continues to hold it; it’s a prop, at this point, that he isn’t willing to part with — his ostensible reason for staying. “...and I can’t believe it wasn’t my fault — that the orders I sent never got through…”

 

[Abandoned maps. Shreds of paper, somewhere along the coast.]

 

Anders nods. “I’m so sorry you believed that…” He licks his top lip and looks down at the floor. “You know, after what happened to Karl, I couldn’t stop either… that’s why I began all this, I think: I needed to understand the lifestyle… why sensible people went down that path…”

“ _I_ still don’t understand it,” says Dorian.

 

[laugh-sigh-shrug]

 

“Well, I think I _might_ ,” Anders argues. “...now.”

Dorian raises his cup to his lips and cocks his head in pantomime of _listening_.

“I think it’s escape,” says Anders. “Even to the educated among us — maybe especially to them...”

Dorian feels his eyes narrow. “I don’t agree.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t trying to escape anything. I… I think I just wanted to be good at something,” he explains. “I’m actually rather accomplished at frameworks.”

“Frameworks?”

“Yeah… despite what you might think… I’m good at rising through the ranks… operations… organizational workflows… even following orders,” explains Dorian. “...when I agree with them…”

“You seemed _good_ even when you didn’t follow them. You sent Renee’s battalion to the coordinates, didn’t you? Even when everyone else told you not to? You followed what you thought was _right_.”

Dorian shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to answer.

“I’m sorry.” Anders seems to recoil into himself.

 

[Retracted neck. Fawning posture.]

 

“Don’t be,” says Dorian. Before he’s thought of it, he reaches out to touch Anders’ hand where it’s resting on his lap. “I don’t know how to handle this either.”

Anders shrugs.

“That’s what’s happening, isn’t it?” asks Dorian, leaning closer. “Neither of us knows how to handle this… that’s why we… well…”

 

[Movements in the dark.]

 

Anders nods, although he looks reluctant. For a fractional second, Dorian hopes: _argue. Tell me it’s something else._ But nothing like that happens…

“You’re right, of course,” says Anders. “It makes sense.”

 

[Silence.]

 

“Except…”

Dorian perks up, poised for… something. “Except what?”

 

[Throat dry. Hope shrouded in a rasp.]

 

“Except I don’t think that’s what it was at all,” says Anders. “I’m… I don’t know how to say it, but you’re… something.” He breathes deeply through his nose. Dorian watches the muscles of his jaw flex. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was,” he says. “That was a mistake… because you’re someone amazing, from what I know… from what I’ve heard… so yes… I made a mistake here… but what happened between us? _That_ wasn’t a mistake.”

 

[Crash.]

 

The collar of Anders’ shirt wrinkles in Dorian’s fist. His face is rough with stubble, but his lips are soft. And it’s all exactly the same as it was the first time, except now it’s _better_.

 

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is so short, but these chapters seem to determine their own length. ...the next one is almost finished. :)


	10. Chapter 10

~~~

 

“I’ve gotta run,” calls Anders from the kitchen. “I’m really late.”

Dorian is still in the shower, but he yells, “Okay! See you tonight!”

There’s a period of silence in which he assumes Anders has left, but then the bathroom door opens. Through the haze of steam, he sees Anders smiling.

“I can’t wait.” Anders pulls the shower door ajar and leans in. “Kiss me.”

“You’re getting all wet,” complains Dorian, but he doesn’t resist.

“It’s worth it.”

 

[A drawn out goodbye.]

 

The last two months have been like this — that is to say, idyllic… or at least as close as Dorian has been to such a thing in his life so far. And if the echo of the past still haunts him, he weathers it…

 

[Just memories, not a noose.]

 

Left to his own devices, Dorian decides to do something he hasn’t in a while: go to meeting. He’s not sure why; he hasn’t had an urge to drink since… well… since Anders — since that day he almost threw everything away, but instead decided to open that box.

 

[Benevolent pandora.]

 

The walk around the corner and down two blocks is easy today — he doesn’t even feel it — and when he opens the door to the third floor meeting room and sees the usual suspects, he thinks of them as old friends, not adversaries.

“Dorian,” says a voice. “It’s good to see you here.”

It’s Cassandra; she looks exactly the same as the last time Dorian saw her, but she’s looking at him worriedly. He understands it; usually, when someone doesn’t show up for as long as he hasn’t, it means a bender. He smiles extra-wide to assuage her fears.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be here,” he says. “I’ve been busy, but I’ve been thinking of everyone a lot.”

She smiles tentatively. “How _are_ you?”

“I’m doing well.”

 

[Anders in the mornings.]

 

“Really, _really_ well.”

“That’s great to hear. We’re about to get started; maybe you can share something about your time away with the group today?” she suggests.

He rolls his eyes, but it’s just for show. For the first time, he thinks that sounds like something he’d actually like to do.

 

[A bell. Call to order.]

 

“Welcome, everyone. I see some new _and old_ faces out there,” says Cassandra. She sits on a chair toward the front of the room. The chairs are organized differently than Dorian has seen them before — a loose horseshoe pattern.

“Would anyone like to speak?” she asks.

Dorian is about to casually volunteer, but a hand shoots up on his left. She’s a small woman, with a brightness in her eyes that Dorian isn’t accustomed to seeing in this context. When Cassandra nods to her, she jumps up to the front of the room and stands rigidly behind the podium; it’s almost as tall as she is, but her presence is _big_.

“Hi. I’m Carolyn, and I’m an addict.”

“Hi Carolyn,” says Dorian, quieter than all the rest.

“I’m here today because it’s time that I finally took responsibility for something…” she continues. “ _I’m_ the reason my relationship ended. I blamed him for ages… in fact, he thinks it was his fault… but I _drove_ him to it. He wanted to pull me back from where I was going… but I was already too close to the edge.”

People murmur to each other in confusion. It feels like she’s begun telling her story halfway through.

“Let me start at the beginning,” she interrupts herself.

 

[A collective sigh.]

 

“They call me Hawke,” she says.

 

[ _The_ Hawke?]

 

Dorian’s pulse speeds up, but years of training kick in before he even realizes it’s happening. Surely, this can’t be her; it’s a common nickname. _Chill out_ , he thinks.

“I was a sniper with the 54th,” she continues. “He — my partner — wasn’t a soldier… he was there for his own reasons… but somehow, we clicked.”

 

[Shared traumas and tents. Dorian remembers.]

 

“...until we didn’t,” she adds. She bites her lip and scans the crowd — Dorian can’t tell _for what_. “...and I know he thinks he abandoned me, but I abandoned him before that. I couldn’t see that what he was working on mattered.” She looks down at the floor and almost smiles. “His _manifesto_ , he called it...”

 

[A sudden chill.]

 

“And I don’t think it was the drugs, although it might have been; I think I was just too stubborn to see that he was the love of my life.”

Dorian tries to swallow; his throat is suddenly dry and rasping. ...he’d do _anything_ for a drink...

 

[Second kitchen drawer on the left.]

 

“And I’m here today because I think the first step is to get myself clean,” she concludes. “Because… he deserves that… and I think I can make him happy — I think we can make each other happy — if we start chipping away at the barriers that separated us.” Then she smiles. It’s so close to a smile _at_ Dorian that he instantly starts to sweat. It’s only happenstance, though; she’s smiling at everyone _and_ no one. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Carolyn,” says Cassandra. “Now, let’s hear from someone else? Dorian?”

 

[Arrhythmia… stress-induced...]

 

Four minutes ago he was ready for this. He felt good — better than he had in ages. He was going to stand up there and talk about how his life was finally on track — he’d met someone who made him want to do better, even though it’s still in its infancy.

...but now…

“Hi, I’m, uh, Dorian… and I’m an alcoholic.”

His words dry up.

“...um…”

 

[Restlessness in the silence. Creak. Scuff. Cough.]

 

“And uh… I haven’t been to a meeting in a while. I guess I forgot how this works.” He laughs and so does the group, but it’s _pity_ ; he can tell. “But I’ve been doing well overall; I… met someone.”

Cassandra smiles at him, although she looks wary.

“And things are going really well with us; we’re at the stage where we’re starting to know each other, but instead of being terrified, I’m actually happy about it.” This nets him a laugh.

 

[Encouragement.]

 

“...in fact, I think he might know me a little differently than anyone else ever has,” he adds. “He knows who I was before — yes — but he also knows who I am becoming.”

 

[That’s true, isn’t it?]

 

He closes his eyes softly and takes a breath, remembering this morning. Anders in bed — long, tangled hair and soft, bright eyes. He blinks so slowly at first; he sleeps in a way Dorian has never managed — deeply… a little bear in hibernation.

“I guess that’s it. I’m just… really glad that I am doing better. I’m proud of myself — tentatively — and I’ve been sober for…” He pauses, thinking. “...one hundred and thirty six days.”

 

[Thanks, Dorian.] 

 

* * *

 

 

On his way out of the meeting, he avoids everyone, but especially Carolyn. She’s talking to a few of the regulars, anyway; they’re telling her what to expect.

By the time he’s rounding the corner to his townhouse — where Anders stays now — he almost believes he invented the whole thing. Hawke _must_ be a common sniper call sign… birds of prey… eyesight… it makes sense.

...and yet, when he walks up to his doorway, his heart sinks.

 

[A small person. Ready to knock.]

 

“Can I help you?” he asks warily.

Carolyn turns, squinting.

 

[...like a _hawk_.]

 

“I’m looking for someone… I think he might be staying here?” she doesn’t look sure. “Wait… you’re… weren’t you at that meeting?”

Dorian rolls his eyes.

“...I mean… sorry… I’m shit at anonymity,” amends Carolyn.

“It’s all right,” says Dorian. He stops a foot in front of her, which already feels too close. “That _was_ me… just don’t go shouting about it.” He manages to laugh, more convincingly than he expects.

Carolyn smiles. “So… what are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

Carolyn’s eyes narrow — avian and piercing.

 

[Deafening silence.]

 

“I must have the wrong place, then,” she says finally.

Dorian shrugs. “I guess so.”

“Well, I’ll see you around…” she says, managing to smile, and walks off.

Dorian unlocks the door and drops his things in the hall. A line of shoes, coat, and winter scarf marks a trail. And, yes, he avoided something today — something potentially dangerous — but he knows; she’ll be back.

 

[...the love of her life.]

 

~~~


	11. Chapter 11

~~~

 

Dorian is shaken in the aftermath and there are _hours_ left before Anders will be home.

 

[Home?]

 

Anders doesn’t live there; he doesn’t really live anywhere. Shortly after they fell into each other — in what felt like fate this morning, but now seems more like happenstance — Anders’ sublet fell through and now he’s here. In the haze of worry, Dorian starts to wonder if it’s a function of desperation.

Still, the house _looks_ like a place he lives. Anders’ papers are all over the island counter. Dorian offered him the study — a closed office with a door — but Anders says he prefers to be in the thick of things. It reminds him of the army.

He toils endlessly from his low-backed stool in the kitchen. Dorian doesn’t really know what he’s working _on_ — he never looks; Dorian cares about privacy. It’s the one thing the military _never_ tolerates.

 

[locker box inspection, oh-eight-hundred]

 

Dorian wonders transiently if he _should_ look, though. Maybe there is some clue, hidden among the typed paragraphs and red-marked margins.

_No._

Dorian decides instead to read something he’s been invited to: Anders’ account of Renee in the war. Dorian has read it a dozen times already; he’s starting to know the words by heart. Only today, when he picks it up from its hiding place among bills and last year’s Saturnalia cards, he does it for a new reason — for the story behind the story, for subtext, for inference.

 

[Author’s notes.]

 

“In a time when anything could change,” Renee is quoted as saying, “It’s important to remember that people are essentially fragile beings.”

Anders’ response to this is a bit puzzling: “But isn’t fragility just a precursor to strength? Strength in its infancy?”

Dorian laughs. It’s one of those things Anders says, but doesn’t necessarily mean. He tries on thoughts like other people try on clothes.

Dorian feels the corners of his mouth turn down, then — a crease forms between his eyebrows. Does Anders try on _people_ like that too? Is Dorian just the latest in a fragility-to-strength experiment? In one even less meaningful? Was Hawke?

“I don’t know,” says Dorian aloud. His voice booms in the silence and he sighs. He should call Anders right now — tell him what happened. What’s the worst that could happen?

...then he remembers…

 

[...knew where you lived… who you are… Renee…]

 

Anders _isn’t_ trustworthy. That’s the bottom line. He’s _proven_ that already. And Dorian thinks people can change — it’s one of his intrinsic beliefs — but if a person doesn’t believe it for himself… then it will never happen. Sometimes, we are the masters of our own misery; Dorian knows _that_ most of all.

 

[Keys in the door.]

 

“Dorian?” calls Anders.

“I’m here,” says Dorian, dropping everything back into its unceremonious pile.

“What are you doing?” asks Anders.

“Just… looking at these,” admits Dorian. He smiles.

 

[Cheshire. Disingenuous.]

 

Anders smiles, too. “Oh. What did you do today?”

“Oh, nothing, really…” It’s half a lie — he didn’t do much, but one piece had the emotional gravity of a red sun. “...went to a meeting.”

“That’s good.” Anders sits on the couch next to Dorian; he drops one hand on Dorian’s knee and draws circles in the fabric of his pants.

 

[Casual touch of familiarity.]

 

“Yeah… it was interesting, anyway…” says Dorian. He’s on the verge of explaining — of telling every piece of the story — but he remembers his conclusion: he can’t trust Anders… not with this… _not yet_.

“I sometimes think we never left the service,” says Dorian, instead. It’s a response to the conversation he’s having with myself — the war he’s waging internally.

 

[Repress. ~~Drink~~. Repeat.]

 

Anders squints. He looks transiently skeptical, but his expression softens. “I guess I see what you’re saying… but to me, the past is the past.”

“Is that true?” asks Dorian. “Why write this then?” He gestures to the mess of papers in front of them.

Anders sighs. “That’s exactly what I mean… what did all of this amount to? It was useless… I’m--I’m giving it up, actually.”

“What?”

“I’m done. I don’t want to work on it anymore,” says Anders quickly. “I’m done dwelling...”

“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying,” Dorian blurts. He _does_ , though. He has been through several ‘enough is enough’ scenarios in his life. The most poignant of which led to their meeting.

 

[Third floor.]

 

Anders’ shoulders rise and fall. He suddenly looks exhausted.

 

[Silent defeat.]

 

 “I don’t really want to talk about this…” he says quietly. “Can we start over? I feel like we’ve gotten off to a strange start this afternoon.”

Dorian feels a surge of anger at the deflection. He puffs up his chest, ready for a fight. “We didn’t— I just—” Then, surprising himself, he stops. His jaw closes painfully with an audible dental click.

 

[It’s not you. _It’s me_.]

 

“I met Hawke today,” he blurts.

Anders blinks.

“...at my old meeting… the third floor one,” adds Dorian quickly.

“My Hawke?”

 

[ _My?_ ]

 

Dorian suppresses a shudder. “She came here looking for you…”

“When?”

“A few hours ago.” Dorian straightens to his full sitting height. It could be construed as haughty or threatening, but it isn’t. It’s an odd kind of protective mechanism.

 

[Atteeeeeention!]

 

“And… she _left_?” asks Anders. He sounds baffled.

“I sent her away.”

“Oh.”

 

[Breathe. Squeeze the trigger.]

 

“She’ll be back, though,” adds Dorian. “I can tell.”

Anders peers at him in what could be one minute or ten. Dorian waits — it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

“Did she leave her number?” asks Anders finally.

“No.”

Anders draws his lips into a line. Dorian thinks he knows what it means, but he wants to be _wrong_.

“I think I know how to get in touch anyway.”

Dorian swallows. “I thought you would…”

The silence crushes in from all sides — it’s suffocating, but Dorian prefers it to the uncertainty. At least he knows where he stands.

 

[Medically discharged. One. Final. Stamp.]

 

“I’m going out; don’t be here when I get back.” Dorian rises, grabbing his phone and keys. Although he’s deliberate, he moves slowly, waiting for Anders to say something.

 

[ _Wishing_.]

 

In the silence that follows, Dorian doesn’t look back.

 

~~~

 


	12. Chapter 12

~~~

 

Dorian only makes it three steps outside the apartment — hears the door click behind him — before he stops. He doesn’t know what makes him do it; it feels involuntary and uncharacteristic. The only thing he’s sure of is that he has to turn around.

...so he does.

 

[shoes in the hallway, coat on the floor.]

 

“What?” asks Anders. It’s _not_ a snap of a question, although the syllable seems to tumble out of his mouth. To Dorian, it sounds like he can’t figure out what other words to put with it, which Dorian relates to because he _also_ doesn’t know what he’s doing back here.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

They’re silent — the expanse of living room between them, a chasm.

Anders bristles. “I’m clearing out,” he adds, as if he’s being rushed.

 

[Commanded, maybe.]

 

“Don't do it,” says Dorian.

Anders squints.

Dorian crosses the carpet in three long strides and sits next to Anders on the couch. “Are you going to call Hawke?” 

Anders nods.

“To get back together?”

“No.”

“Then fine. Call her.” Dorian swallows hard. There’s an ember of something burning in the back of his throat — something he knows like the echo of a recently-ended dream. It’s initially hard to name it, although — instantly — he knows what it is. He shrugs, nervous and feeling like a child. “I’m jealous.”

“Why?”

Dorian shrugs again. “Why does _anyone_ bother with such idiotic emotions?” He sniffs as punctuation and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Anders runs his fingers along the edge of his own jaw; they rasp quietly against the stubble. Dorian hallucinates crop circles in the parted hair — Anders sometimes seems alien… _now_ more than ever.

 

[A foreign force. A threat.]

 

“I’m not necessarily sorry _to you_ … I’m just… I hate this feeling,” says Dorian. He laughs a little, but it’s weak. “I haven’t felt like this in an age.”

Anders bites his bottom lip, suddenly quiet, and stares intently at Dorian’s face. “...neither have I…”

 

[approximated declaration of love]

 

Dorian deflects. “Well, then I _am_ sorry… because you’ve selected a very difficult path…”

Anders smiles broadly.

“...difficult, but beautiful,” amends Dorian, preening in feigned confidence. Truthfully, he’s never felt so insecure.

“I don’t have to stay here, you know,” says Anders quietly. “There’s no reason I can’t go somewhere else.”

Dorian shakes his head reflexively, but Anders doesn’t stop talking.

“...I can’t help but think that this all happened awfully fast — in a wholly disorganized fashion… full of lies and… it just doesn’t seem right...” Anders sounds insouciant, but the expression he’s wearing says he means it.

“It did start that way… _those_ ways... it was fast,” repeats Dorian. “But…”

 

[Lost moments, never returned.]

 

“...but I don’t want to wait,” finishes Dorian. “I don’t see the point in it, frankly… not since…”

His mind hitches. _Renee_ forms in his mouth, and like so many other times, his tongue curls around it, teeth forming a dam, but in the moment he has to decide, he swallows — relaxes his jaw — and continues, against all odds.

“...not since Renee,” he says. “I don’t want to be wondering what I should have done — what I would have said when you’re…”

Anders laughs suddenly — nervous and gasping. “I’m not going to _die_.”

“We’re _all_ going to die,” Dorian corrects. “It’s just a matter of when — no one can know a thing like that.”

Anders’ face softens, but a twitch in his jaw tells Dorian he’s still considering. Facing mortality is often like that.

 

[A battlefield of carcasses]

 

“So, I’m just saying… call Hawke… do what you need to do,” says Dorian. “But don’t leave.”

“I didn’t want to, you know.” Anders shrugs. “But I _do_ want to give you what you need.”

Dorian smiles. “I know… it’s... _nice_.”

 

[I’m not used to it.]

 

They’re quiet again. Dorian has a hundred questions now that the dust is beginning to settle. He debates tactics and rehearses silently.

 

[ _Why_?]

 

“So what are you going to say to Hawke?” he blurts.

“I’m just going to listen, mostly,” answers Anders. “I loved her once. I still do in a way… but… I’m not who I was.”

Dorian nods. “How are you different?”

“We were angry together,” says Anders. The way he doesn’t hesitate surprises Dorian, which Anders seems to understand because after a breath he explains, “You’re not used to being angry, are you?”

“No… not really…”

 

[Internalized aggression. Eat less; train more.]

 

“But I’ve dealt with angry people all my life, I think,” Dorian adds. “My parents were… angry in a quiet way.”

“I think that’s possibly the scariest kind,” Anders says. “Hawke and I were outwardly angry… we were indignant, actually.”

“Isn’t that sometimes good?”

Anders pauses, cocking his head to the side. “Sometimes.”

 

[Manifesto pages still on the coffee table.]

 

“But sometimes it feeds into itself,” Anders adds, looking thoughtful. “Sometimes it’s a feedback loop; sometimes it stops you from growing.”

“And that’s what happened with Hawke?”

Anders shakes his head. “That’s what happened to _me_ ; Hawke was — is — a force… drugs aside.”

Dorian struggles against that feeling again — that stricture in his chest.

“That’s why I have to contact her… she deserves to be heard, no matter what my situation is now…” continues Anders.

Dorian’s eyes snap up at that — the picture of Anders sharpening. “Your _situation_?”

 

[Hope]

 

Anders smiles, bashful and full. “Well… I’m with you…?”

Dorian feels his face betray him — he’s smiling before he knows how to stop it. “Yeah… you’re with me.”

And despite the trepidation he feels, despite the unlikeliness of this, he means it.

 

~~~

* * *

~~~

 

“Hi, I’m Dorian; I’m an alcoholic.”

 

[The usual shuffling and grumbling.]

 

“I haven’t had a drink in a year, as of yesterday.”

The crowd claps, looking awake for the first time during this meeting. It’s unusual in a group of veterans for someone to stay sober for this long.

 

[Memories, a haunting force.]

 

“And a lot of that is because of my support system,” says Dorian. “I have… the best partner… and I’m starting to make roots — friends, neighbors…” He clears his throat and looks at the door — loose on its hinges and badly chipping paint. “But most of it is this… this ritual I’ve given myself… this accountability…”

Cassandra beams, from the back of the room.

“Without forcing myself to come here — without being forced by _you_ , sometimes — I never would have made it this far…and… I guess I’m thankful…”

Dorian takes a breath, gripping the podium, like he’s done a thousand times before.

“I’ve often said that the secret to life is confidence,” he says, changing tack. “...that if you act with authority people will follow you — that’s certainly true in the military, don’t you think?”

 

[Commiserating laughter.]

 

“...but there’s a nuance I missed before…” Dorian lets his vision soften over the crowd, thinking about the winding road he’s taken and the paths he might still travel. “I’ve now come to believe that it’s not confidence, but _compassion_ — the compassion you have to show yourself in order to relate to other people.” He bites his bottom lip. “I used to think people liked me because of the way I looked or spoke or thought… but I see now, that was hollow… most of why people like me _now_ is because _I_ like me… and that’s a much deeper kind of connection than anything I created externally — than any facade I invented.”

 

[Mask. Disguise. _Uniform_.]

 

“Anyway…” Dorian laughs quietly, casting his eyes down. “I’m grateful… that’s all. Just — thanks.”

 

[clap-clap-clap. _Who’s next?_ ]

 

Around the corner, on the cold street outside, between piles of snow and patches of ice, Anders and Dorian walk hand in hand — breathing the same frigid air.

“I liked what you said today,” says Anders quietly.

Dorian looks up. “Thanks.”

 

[Another block. Quiet companionship.]

 

“You know… I like _you_ , too.” Dorian smiles.

Anders laughs. “And all this time, I thought you _loved_ me… man, I’ve been misguided…”

Dorian gently pushes his shoulder into Anders. “You know what I mean…”

Anders nods.

“...but you know… sometimes… I think the liking means something else,” adds Dorian.

“What?”

“I mean… I’m always going to love you — in the way I still love my parents, even though they were varying degrees of terrible… in the way I still love Renee, even though he’s gone… in the way you still love Hawke, despite everything…” Dorian clears his throat, realization dawning. “But I _really fucking like you_ , too… and that counts for something else… that’s trust and love and admiration…that’s… you—you’re _amazing_.”

 

[Quiet sniffing.]

 

“I guess my hay fever is really acting up,” says Anders, wiping his face.

“Yeah… amazing how that happens in the middle of winter — fucking climate crisis…”

 

[step-step-step. keys-in-lock. HOME.]

 

~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> [thank you.]


End file.
